Red, Yellow, Blue
by DilophoLehnsherr
Summary: During the height of the Cold War, CIA agent Napoleon Solo is sent on an undercover investigation of a Gulag labour camp in the middle of the Soviet Union. There, he meets a young Russian man, issued to Siberia for opposing the Khrushchev reign. This labourer simply goes by "The Red Peril," and he is perhaps the most mysterious man that Solo has ever encountered.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This lil' plot bunny has been hopping around in my mind for some time now, so I decided "what the hell?" This will be a fairly long stretch of a fic, but I can't say that I'll have decent update times. The life of a high school senior is a hectic one, after all. Plus, diplomas are in a month, so I'll be spending a lot of time studying my brains out in order to pass on a good enough mark to get into uni. That said, please don't rip out my throat if I don't update for months at a time; I do have a thing called "real life" that I need to get to sometimes.

" _Do you realize the importance of this mission, Mr. Solo?"_

While the repetitive sounds of rattling metal wheels underneath clunked in that unchanging rhythm against the tracks, Napoleon looked up from his wrists, where he had been tugging at the cuffs of his long, wool sleeves. It was a nervous habit he had, that arose whenever a dangerous situation presented itself. He really had to stop doing that. No emotion alluded on his expression signified his growing anxiety at the particular assignment that had been given to him. This was perhaps the riskiest task he had been given in his espionage career, and the fact that global conflict was at an all-time high certainly did not help.

 _"With all due respect, Sir, are you trying to get me killed?"_

In all his life, Napoleon had never seen a landscape like this. As he gazed out of the frost-covered window, the cold outside air fogging out the edges of the frame, he could have gawked at the sheer vastness of it all. There was nothing but thick forest and jagged rock for as far as the horizon stretched out around him. Thick snow coated the ground, untouched by mankind. Everything about this countryside brought about a heavy feeling of total isolation, which sat like a stone at the pit of Solo's stomach.

 _"Don't sass me, Solo. You can handle it, you're our best man. Besides, you don't really have a choice in the matter, do you?"_

Napoleon swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat; looking across the scope of the land made a shiver run through him, as though the cold had seeped into the protection of the train he was on, deliberately speeding through the Soviet wilderness towards a Communist labour camp, where the nearest speck of civilization was hundreds of kilometers away. What fun.

 _"I don't think you quite understand. You see, I like my bones intact."_

By running the little brief he had gotten prior to his arrival in the uninhabited regions of Siberia through his head, Napoleon was able to find an odd sort of reassurance within the familiarity of it. The agent knew his to-do list, and he knew it well. He knew where to search, who to talk to, how to pass off as just another Soviet man on a trip to a Gulag. The identity of the man he was to be was already seeded within his every action, with a few Solo-esque quirks slipping through the cracks. He would have to tightly seal those as time went on. Vladislav Arkady was to be his new name, and he was merely another who spoke out against the horrors of USSR reality. Stalin may be dead, but his iron-fisted reign still lived on in some regards of this god-forsaken place. Napoleon's task was to simply gather information, walk in these people's shoes, then escape to the established drop-zone mere miles away from the collective camp. There, he would report back to the CIA exactly eight months and eight days from now, and America would be one step closer to winning the struggle for information so tightly guarded.

The track veered off to the side now, down a steep, rather precarious hillside. The angle at which the train tipped had Napoleon's fellow passengers exchanging nervous looks amongst each other, whispering in heavily-accented Russian. But the man himself kept a stoic air about him, staring off into the distance through the window, trying to pinpoint where in this massive stretch of fenced farmland that spread below him that he would be herded to. Before he could figure this out, the sudden drop in height fogged over the glass enough to prevent all sight to the other side. Not fifteen minutes later did a loud, sharp screech of metal against metal alert them all to their arrival at the very place where many of the people Napoleon saw before him would starve, be driven to madness, die at the hands of those in power. It was a chilling thought, even more so than the sudden bite of cold that assaulted Solo the moment he stepped off that train with the rest of the prisoners. It nipped at his exposed skin, the icy breeze enticing a chattering in his jaw, every exhaled breath forming mist in the air.

At this moment, it was truly impossible to tell that the shivering, dark-haired man with the strong build was in fact an American spy. Right now, with his grey, ratty coat, messy, undone hair, and perfect Russian accent as he swore under his breath in that very language, he was simply another Gulag prisoner, sent to work on a collective farm for the glory of the Soviet Union


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Well, I'm back to this sooner than I expected. Thank you so much to all of you who favourited and followed and reviewed! You made my day honestly. I also had a Social Studies unit test on the Cold War and Communism so y'know I'm just recuperating by writing a story set in the Cold War because that makes total sense. Okay, but in all seriousness, this is how I like to go about my writing: with every story or chapter I write, I like to also have a song to accompany it. My two biggest passions in life are the musical arts and the English language arts, so that's just how I jumble 'em both together. Take away from each song I use what you will, for I will not say what they allude to or symbolise within each stint. The only thing I will say is this: they will either tie into something within the chapter or characterization, or hint at events to come. To start us off on this, I'm going to say that Killer Queen by Queen is our first chapter song. Special thanks to my good Russian friend who agreed to be my translator along the way. Enjoy!

A man watched from the confines of the shadows as the newest load of workers arrived, his eyes cast to the snow by his feet. Amongst the others, this man was hardly noticeable, and barely more than an expendable pawn to the authorities. An outsider would pay the figure no attention, as he bore no immediate significance to the prying eye of even the most eager observer. Thus, no one paid the unknown watcher any attention, but he did more than just watch this group: he analyzed. Nearly a decade of trains coming and going had passed in his long, seemingly endless years here in the middle of Siberia, yet this one was different. This one heightened his interest, long dulled from countless days of constant discouragement and ever-repetitive routine. Perhaps it was his mind crying out for something more in this short-strawed life, perhaps there was truly something different about this time. Either way, he mentally categorized people into three distinct groups, based on first impressions as well as his all-too personal experience with life here: those who would struggle through to the end, those who would starve within a month, and those who would ultimately meet their ends at the barrel of a gun. But there was one man that he could not put in a box, and that man had a grey, ratty coat; messy, undone hair; a strong build and dark hair, shivering against the cold they had all long acclimatised to.

The moment that Napoleon had stepped off the train was the moment that he realised how much he yearned for his tiny studio apartment, his hard, lumpy mattress that his feet used to hang off the end of, and even the yappy little dog that belonged to his next-door neighbour. At least there, it was warm. Nothing could compare to the overwhelming feeling of regret he felt as he surveyed his surroundings, for death and dreary melancholy hung about this place like a noosed rope from a tree branch. People of a once strong and healthy make-up now skulked about the place in forced compliance, merely skin and bones. Their skin clung to their faces in unnaturally tight ways, given each individual the same collective look of a walking skeleton, sunken eyes carrying such a defeated sadness that it hit Solo like a bus. If the Soviets were aiming for a truly collective society, where class structure was eliminated in favour of a truly equal doctrine, then they had succeeded, because not a single person was any better or worse off than anyone else here. Everyone reacted with the same instinctive fear when authorities walked passed their general area, everyone jumped to work even harder at their given tasks when they glanced their way, and everyone silently turned a blind eye when a single woman was dragged away quite literally kicking and screaming by two men in uniform, both carrying long guns strapped to their backs. Napoleon strained to hear what they were shouting, but all he could catch was the fragment of a single Russian word: "...праздный!" They carried her away simply for idling?

The more he took in, the more he resented this place, and the more he wished instead for his superiors were yelling at him for 'sassing' them for the thousandth time. It was when his nervous thoughts began to precede him, his left hand once again tugging at his sleeve, that a bearded, burly man shouted for their attention. While he was not entirely sure whether this was fortunate or unfortunate, the group began to be divided into groups based on apparent strength, though when the man stalked towards the middle, he appeared to take notice of Napoleon. As he walked, his boots made a heavy scrunch in the packed-down snow, only to stop as they lined up with the feet of those of the American. The agent allowed some of his usually heavily-concealed emotion to slip through his barriers for the sake of his act, while he still stood his ground. The man leaned in, stepped forward as if to show how much he truly did tower over the other. Napoleon could smell his breath, as it reeked of overcooked beef and onion stew. "What's your name?" His voice was rough, almost bear-like in its obvious power-craze.

"Vladislav," Napoleon answered smoothly, if with a second's reverted gaze. "Vladislav Arkady." Did that sound fake? What did a fake Russian name sound like? There was no time to reflect on this thought process, as he was issued a rough push towards a certain group of people who were of very similar build as him.

"Consider yourself nameless from now on, traitor," the soldier snarled, and once satisfied that no insubordination would come out of this 'Vladislav,' he moved on to a small gathering of men in similar uniforms, gesturing towards the groups he had split the newcomers in and barking orders at those who looked much younger than him. They promptly nodded, and split into equal numbers of their own: two for each of the three groups before them. With their guns cocked and ready to either fire or simply be used for scare tactic purposes, they shouted rapid Russian at the latest additions to their Communist nightmare and began to herd the groups away from each other.

Napoleon tried to keep himself quiet, head down and obedient like the rest as he shuffled along the throng of people of all ages, genders, but something attracted his line of sight up and over the ducked heads of those around him. curiousity piqued, he found himself looking at a dark silhouette, leaned against the barbed wire fence with crossed arms. This one was different from the others, for while he was still unnaturally skinny, he was not a fading skeleton of a body. He did not carry an air of absolute defeat, more of acceptance of the cruelty of fate. Napoleon could not see his eyes, for his face was shadowed over by the cover of a hat tilted down. A loud call seemed to have alerted the stranger, for he flinched as if momentarily alarmed, uncrossed his arms, and snatched the shovel that had been laying by his feet. As his head tilted upwards, the two men, Soviet and American, locked eyes with one another. There was so much behind that look of seeming neutrality that even Solo did not have the time to catch the true meaning before he was gone, turned and jogging towards a larger group shovelling off the snow that covered a pasture of livestock.

A light jab to his back alerted Napoleon to the fact that he had been lagging behind in his own wonder at the young Soviet, and he also broke into a jog to catch up to the middle of the larger gathering that he belonged to as well.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:**. University applications what are those? Seriously, I'm taking a year off I don't have to worry about that right now. Plus, with my grades I just have to keep 'em up and the academic scholarships are in my grasp. Exciting thing, though! I might have just snagged myself an internship at a local newspaper, which would be amazing because I would rack up the work experience before I even head into uni. The downside: they are not very inclined to hiring aspiring journalism students who are not local. Yeah, I'm Dutch-Canadian. I am such an expat here that I get white jokes from my friends at parties, I don't think I have a very good chance when paired against the others in line. Still, there's a chance! Internships aside, I hope you all enjoy this next chapter, and I'm gonna say that today's chapter song is We're Going to Be Friends by The White Stripes.

Two weeks had passed in this dreadful place since a certain American had arrived on Soviet soil. Two long-winded, seemingly eternal weeks of excruciatingly difficult work and little to no gain to show for it. 'Feeding time,' as the soldiers called it, hardly ever meant anything substantial. More often than not, leftover scraps were tossed to each of the workers, which were devoured savagely by the collective in their animalistic desire for sustenance. But these fractions of true meals never did a thing to satisfy anyone's appetite, merely teasing it. Napoleon would argue that this was worse than blatantly starving them all to death, for the man who lives amongst nothing learns to accept nothing, while the man who lives amongst promised expectation only learns disappointment. The act was everything in his current situation, so Napoleon had no more than his fellow labourers, which in turn led to his sudden loss of weight. He had not been here for very long yet, so the consequences were not yet outwardly visible, but the man himself had noticed how his thumb and middle finger could form a closed ring around the opposite wrist now.

It was not just the borderline starvation that was beginning to affect him, but the strenuous work he was forced to carry out every day. Solo was not a very strong man, for he mostly relied on his charisma, skills of persuasion, stealth, and agility to complete the task at hand; brute strength was something that he lacked. Spending all day, every day, moving heavy equipment, working agricultural machinery, and tending to various animals who were better off than those taking care of them, had begun to take a serious toll on his energy levels. The added fatigue due to lack of sufficient nutrition did nothing to help this, and only left him panting like a dog by the end of each day, sweating despite the below-freezing conditions that had subsequently caused the dot of frostbite that had formed on the tip of the spy's nose.

The awful living conditions were something to attest to, as well. Virtually no insulation lined the thin walls of the tiny wooden huts they lodged in, and although the Soviets seemed to have to sense to give everyone some amount of their own space, it was still crowded. Sleep came with immense difficulty, and much pitiful shivering. Every night, Napoleon would wonder if he still remembered what warmth felt like, only to regret recalling the comfort of it once it was resurrected from his memory.

Fourteen days down, only two-hundred and thirty-nine to go.

However, there was one thing that kept poking at the back of Napoleon's mind; something that never ceased to have him looking over his shoulder in hopes of scoping out a certain man. That Russian, the one with the brown hat and the intense, steely-eyed stare; the one with the strong build and the air of mystery that surrounded him; where had he gone?

It was just that evening, after another long, harsh day of heavy lifting and running back and forth between various jobs that Napoleon gained the answer to the question nagging him so. Him and a few others were seated at a wobbly wooden table, munching at the miniscule meals issued to them by the authorities. This time of day was the only time any free social interaction was not heavily listened-in on. Yet it was silence that seeped through the large hall that housed thousands of workers as they ate, no one feeling up to the labour of speaking after their efforts that day. Tonight, Solo sat across from a young Ukrainian man who looked no older than nineteen, with a dark, liquid red colouring his right eye, signalling an untreated sickness. Great, there was disease here, too?

The Ukrainian was the first to speak amongst their general area, his accent differing just slightly from those of Russian descent, which testified to his nationality. "You should do something about that frostbite, there."

Napoleon long grown to ignore the nip of the ice on his nose until now, but being reminded of it only served to annoy him once more. "And what do _you_ suppose I do about it?"

"Keep it warm, like this," with an almost enthusiastic movement, the boy brought both hands up to form a dome that covered his mouth and nose, and made a show of blowing into it. "Keeps your hands warm, too! Eventually, it'll go away. Seriously, how'd you learn to survive in the Union without knowin' how to cure a little mild frostbite before it takes your nose off?"

 _Because I've never been here until now._ Solo thought, though dismissed the negative process. God knew that he did not need any more reasons to stress out about this. "I don't know, I guess I'm just so good-looking that the heat coming off my body melted it all until now," Napoleon smirked, and struck a little playful pose.

The admittedly dorky actions of the American provoked a splutter of laughter out of his new conversational partner, who covered his massive, ear-to-ear smile with one hand. When he had finally settled down, he just shook his head in an amused way, stuck out his hand in a greeting, and brightly chimed an "Andriy."

With a one-sided grin of his own, Napoleon gladly reached out and shook his hand firmly. "Vladislav."

Before their hands had disconnected from each other, a rather loud and startling crash had the entire hall turning their curious heads to see what the commotion was about. After looking amongst each other, it was clear that the sound had not originated inside, but due to the vast majority of them having already been whipped into total compliance, no one dared move to see what it was. One of the soldiers glanced out of the crack in the slightly-open main door, only to turn back round with a shake of the head and a roll of the eyes. Napoleon's urge to explore the issue had him look back at Andriy, and give a quick gesture of his head that said that he would go check it out. Much to Andriy's evident discomfort about this, the older man stood from his seat and began the long walk to the door, casting a glance over to the group of soldiers not too far away to ensure that he was not going to get detained for exploring. Since none of them reacted to his eye-contact, he deemed it safe to go, and pushed open the door to the chilled outside air.

What he saw next made him catch his breath for a moment.

It was the Russian man with the brown hat and the intense, steely-eyed gaze, only this time he was not huddled in the shadows of a wall, but very close indeed and very much bathed in the dimming sunlight. His hands were shaking violently, his knuckles covered in his own blood, which dripped into the snow in thick globs of red. Jagged shards of glass stuck out from some of the nasty gashes in his palms, and a ways in the distance another worker could be seen making a break for it, as if frantically running away from him.

Napoleon had not realized that he was tugging on his sleeve again until he took a careful step forward. He really had to stop doing that.

"That's a bad-looking cut you got there," Solo attempted, which attracted the guarded stare of the other man, who only shook his head in response.

"I can handle it," he insisted dryly, voice void of emotion. Talk about walls.

"I can help y-"

"I said I can handle it."

"It'll get infected if you don't treat it." Napoleon shrugged nonchalantly.

That got a rather sarcastic laugh out of him. "And where do you suppose I get treatment _here_?"

"I know a thing or two about dressing wounds. Let me take a look." As Solo approached, the other hesitantly backed away a step, but after a moment or two of silence shared between them, finally lowered and extended his injured hands with a heavy sigh. Napoleon wasted no time in gathering a handful of snow in one hand and packing it against the bloody skin, getting a cringe and a grunt in a reaction. "Keep still. It'll sting, but it's the best we've got as far as cleaning the wounds is concerned. Jesus, what did you do to your hands? They look like they've been through a woodchipper."

"I had a glass. I squeezed too hard. The glass broke." Well, that was certainly a precise answer.

The rest passed in silence as the shorter of the two tended to the rest of the cuts, pulling out glass, cleaning the gashes, and finally tearing two strips of fabric off of his own coat to tightly wound around the Russian's hands. Before long, the man with the hat was looking over his hands, which had stopped shaking, turning them over and examining his new companion's work. When he looked back up, the two exchanged a long, unblinking gaze, both unsure of what to make of this newcomer, both knowing who the other was from the train arrival, both sharing more in that look than words ever could in this situation.

How long had passed like that, neither of them knew, but it was broken when the Russian uttered a nearly silent "thanks," with a prompt nod.

As the other turned to leave, Napoleon was not about to let him just go like that. So, he quickly moved in front of him, extended his hand much in the same way that Andriy had just minutes ago, and introduced himself. "Vladislav."

With some hesitation, the Russian took the offer and carefully shook Solo's hand. "That's not your name."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow at that, hand still holding the bandaged one. "Excuse me?"

"I said that's not your name." Instead of questioning it further, however, the Russian only grinned down at him, a small chuckle sounding from between his exposed teeth. "That's okay. You tell someone your name, and they have power over you. That's why I don't give mine out, either." After their hands had disconnected and fell to their sides, Napoleon unsure of what to say to that, the apparently nameless took his leave, trudging through the heavy snow as though he were born to do so.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I planned out my next competitive cosplay for MEFCC! I'm gonna do Charlie Cox's Daredevil from the first season finale whoo. I'm gonna crush the competition this year (('cause it's not like I say that every year and then systematically lose every year)). It's kinda funny how at the last con, which was IGN con, the host was looking at all of us on stage and saying that we were "the best cosplayers in the Middle East," and then the guy beside me shouted "we're the only cosplayers in the Middle East!" and that basically made my day because pretty much everyone there were the exact same people I compete against every con, just in different costumes. Yeah, there's not a lot of pop culture that goes on here, and the cosplay community is tiny. We get all the latest pop culture, it's just that no one goes for it. Anyway, enjoy! Chapter song is Rasputin by Boney M. But Turisas did a pretty ballin' metal cover of it if you're more of a metalhead.

/

"What about… _that_ one?"

"Short-stack over there?"

"Yeah."

Napoleon followed his line of sight to where Andriy was pointing, spotting a short, blond worker. He had seen that man in passing glances before, with his unnaturally bleach-blond hair and bright blue eyes. When he spoke, his accent would have been perfect if not for the slight German drawl that laced certain words. "I'd say of Nazi German descent. Father was probably pretty high up in the ranks, if he produced an Aryan son. Most likely fled to Russia after the War, raised his son to be Soviet to avoid suspicion, but that evidently didn't work."

This had become a regular game that the two of them played together, where they hid up in the highest ground that they could find, look over a group working in the fields, and try to figure out individual lives based on the evidence they could pick out of their actions. if they were ever caught, there would be hell to pay, but so far they had done this about four times without anyone noticing their absence. Due to his true origin story, Napoleon was much better at the little details than his Ukrainian friend. Friend? Was that what he considered Andriy now? He supposed it could not hurt, to have someone around to make this place just a little less hellish. Still, it felt wrong to be lying about who he was to this kid, who was so sweet and optimistic and forgiving about everything. But it was better that way. As far as he knew, Solo was not Solo at all, but just a former Kulak by the Arkady name who was caught spreading capitalist propaganda.

"God, I'm not going near him anymore," Andriy shivered, as if recalling a horrid memory. "The Nazis ravaged my country, right after the Union starved millions of us to death. They can deny it all they want, but the fact of the matter is that they sparked a genocide."

It was the first time that Napoleon had ever seen Andriy anything less than happy; needless to say, that concerned him. It was obviously a sensitive topic, and one that he made a mental note to not mention again while in his presence. A heavy silence fell between the pair then, broken only by an icy breeze that whooshed passed them, stirring their hair and irritating Napoleon's worsening frostbite, which had since spread to cover half of his nose. Three weeks ago, he would have been shivering and chattering his teeth, but now he hardly felt the cold at all, as though it had just become another part of him. Neither of them dared to speak, so Napoleon looked out over the working men and women, watched them as they huddled closer together while the gust of wind snaked through them, watched as they worked to their energy limits, watched as a man simply collapsed from the strain, and watched as his limp body was dragged away by a stone-faced Soviet soldier. God, he could not wait to get out of here.

Twenty-one days down, only two-hundred and thirty-two to go.

"Do y'think it's better over there?" The sudden, quiet squeak of Andriy's voice had Napoleon glancing back, seeing the boy drawing random designs in the snow he was sitting cross-legged in.

"In Ukraine?" Solo inquired, "probably not, if it's still part of the Union."

Andriy just shook his head. "No, no… I know it's shitty in Ukraine. I mean in America." He looked up at the American then, the irritated redness that used to occupy only one eye having seeped to the other, intensifying his suddenly very serious, unblinking stare. "It can't be all bad, can it? I mean, yeah, capitalism is a pretty greedy system and a lot of people suffer because of the wealth gap, but at least they don't throw their own citizens in camps for thinking differently."

Napoleon averted his eyes, returning his line of sight to those working in the fields. "Maybe not camps, per say, but they certainly throw them in jail for saying that communism has some good ideas."

"But aren't you a capitalist?"

That was a question that really had him thinking. All his life, he had been taught that communism was evil, and that capitalism was the righteous path. And he believed it, because all they ever taught him in school was the horrors committed in the name of socialist principles, while completely ignoring the most basic concepts of the ideology itself while skimming over anything bad caused by capitalism. But being here, he learned. Oh, he learned so much about communism. How one day, a man named Karl Marx sought to unify the people without discrimination, to bring them together under one class where everyone was equal, and no one got any more or any less than their neighbour, and everyone was entitled to their basic needs as part of the human race. But then there were the concepts of capitalism, of the free market and the freedom to do as you please, no matter what the circumstance. And there was equality in that, too. No one was above the law, no one can use their power to directly harm anyone else… Solo let out a long, heavy sigh, at odds with his own viewpoints. "Honestly, kid… I don't know anymore."

Another breeze blew passed the two of them, breaking the resulting silence with a low swish. Napoleon covered his nose in a protective palm, and blew his warm breath into his skin. It made his nose burn, his cheeks flush in response to the gifted heat in this frozen wasteland. As he pulled his hands away, he brushed the overgrown, messy fringe out of his eyes. The longer he spent in this god-forsaken camp, the more he was beginning to look like one of them, and the more Russian he spoke, the less confident he was becoming in his mother tongue of English. Funny, how that worked, for he never grew any less confident in his Russian abilities throughout long periods without use of them.

"It's your turn to pick someone." Andriy spoke up, which snapped his companion out of his trance.

"...Yeah, I guess it is." Were they still playing this game of theirs? Maybe so, if they were hiding out up here. He examined the larger group once more, the members of it like ants scattered about an anthill, ever-working so very busily at the desire of the higher powers. Who should he pick? The teenage girl with the makeshift scarf shielding her head from the elements? The man who kept glancing nervously over his shoulder, one hand in his pocket? There were so many interesting lives one could work out from all these people, it was difficult to limit it to just one. But then one man caught Napoleon's attention: brown hat, strong build, hands wrapped in tight fabric bandages. "What can you make of him?" Solo gestured towards him with a point of his index finger.

"With the hat?"

"Yeah."

Andriy suddenly grew hesitant in his answer, his voice quieting by a significant amount. "R-really, _him_?"

"Do you know something about him?" Solo's attention was now focused entirely on the Ukrainian boy, who quite clearly had some knowledge that would pique his interest.

The only reply that the American got, however, was a scratch behind the ear and a small shake of the head.

"Never play poker, Andriy." Napoleon shook his head.

"Why not?"

"You scratch at your ear when you lie."

With a little huff that sent a cloud of mist into the cold air, Andriy grew a bit defensive, and decided to point out a certain impulse that he had noticed on his new friend. "Yeah, well, you always tug at your sleeve when you're nervous." His efforts to divert the topic of conversation away from a particular individual proved to be useless, however.

"And I admit, I need to stop doing that, but stop trying to change the subject, Andriy. You know something, I know you do. Just give it to me straight, bud: who is he?" In his own desire to know this mystery man, Napoleon had neglected to filter out the burning curiousity that laced his every word.

"You're really desperate, aren't you?" Andriy narrowed his reddened eyes, and if it were only dark out, that piercing gaze could have scared off any approaching wanderer.

The extent to which he did not belong here suddenly became quite apparent to the spy. Everything was so aggressive here, survival depending on how far one was willing to go for the sake of their lives. Though rather talkative before, Napoleon found that he could only turn his head back to look through the snowy expanse towards that man that had been consuming his thoughts so.

The sound of rustling movement came from Andriy's area, but Solo did not turn to watch as the younger man stood, trudged through the short gap between them, and sat back down beside Napoleon. He let out a long, sighed exhale, but before he truly spoke he brought his pale, blue-fingered hands up to his face, rubbed them together and blew into his palms. "Well, if you wanna know that badly, I guess I can tell you, Vlad."

He could see them up on the hill. Not immediately visible; one had to be looking for them. Distinguishable features could not be made out from this location, but he had a fairly good idea of who the pair atop the hill was. The man who he could not place, who cleaned up his hands and went by Vladislav, and the young Ukrainian whom he seemed so fond of hanging around. What was his name? Andrew? Something with an 'A'. It was rather unusual to ship someone all the way to Siberia when there were plenty of adequate camps between Ukraine and this lifeless landmass, unless they were handpicked for a very specific reason.

"Kuryakin!" The sound made him jump, suck in a sharp breath. There was only one man who knew his name, and only due to his job. He was a large, burly man, and the others enjoyed calling him the 'Russian Bear' behind his back.

Despite how much it hurt to do so, Kuryakin clenched his fists at his side, steeling himself before he turned to face the Bear. No encounter with the Bear ever ended well, for the Bear was aggressive, loved to bare its fangs and curve its razor-like claws at anything it may deem a provocation. The Bear had been commissioned the same year that Kuryakin had arrived, and he was its first plaything, and its favourite toy. Fifteen endless, loathsome years had passed since that first day, and today, like every other day before, he had to meet that sociopathic stare with the knowledge that he would be its next meal if he did not comply to its desires.

When he did not answer, just simply met that stare at equal height, the claws came out. Kuryakin barely registered the movement before a hard, painful slap was issues across his face, the sheer force of it stunning the worker for a solid few moments. When he came back to reality, there was a strong, metallic taste in his mouth, coupled with the sensation of a mouth full of molasses. That feeling was rushing back to him again, the crushing wave of rage and revenge, but he had learned long ago not to lash out at the Bear. Though his injured hands were shaking, fingers slightly hooked, all he did was spit out a red glob of blood into the snow by his feet. It stained the fluffy whiteness into a harsh, bright crimson. He did not straighten up this time, but merely hunched his shoulders, ducked his head in forced submission, the shadow of his visor casting over his eyes. "Yes, Sir?" He asked, forcing his voice to remain level, in the tone he would have used in respect.

The Bear's claws retracted again, and a sick grin stretched across its face, revealing a row of rotting teeth. "When you first came here, you were just a little boy. Scared, separated from his family, totally alone in the world. I watched you grow, Illya, and I kept you in line. I practically raised you, kid." It spoke in a smooth voice, though it could chill one to the very bone. It was a hiss, mixed with a low growl. The kind of voice that made every instinct scream to run, to run and never look back. But Kuryakin knew this game, and this game was all about the chase, not the kill. He refused to give him a chase.

"Hmm."

The Bear did not seem to want a chase after all, for no kick or punch or slap was administered for his disdainful tone. Instead, the grizzly went on: "Now, I've not come here to chat. I have a certain interest in a certain new prisoner, and it would be a great help if you could help me in, uh… Gathering information, let's say." The rancid stench of its breath burned Kuryakin's nostrils, and it took all of his self-control not to cover his nose.

"Who is it?"

"Oh, no one unusual. Looks about your age, I'd say. Dark hair, not very apt in the physical strength department, though he seems rather resourceful at mending certain ailments." Harsh eyes flicked down to injured hands wrapped in torn fabric. Kuryakin followed, and a poisonous feeling seeped into the pit of his stomach. Throwing up seemed like a very real possibility all of a sudden, for all of his instincts were on high alert now, screaming at him to run, to run and never look back. But he could not run, for where would he go? He would be shot dead before he reached the barbed-wire fence that lined the outskirts of the camp; he be torn apart by a pack of timberwolves if he escaped, provided that the sheer cold would not pick him off like the ant he was. Flight was out of the equation, which left only one more option: fight.

"With all due respect Sir, go fuck yourself."

He felt outside the realm of control when he said those words, smoothly and slowly, every syllable rolling off his tongue with unmistakeable enunciation. But he did not regret it, he did not fear. In fact, he felt nothing. Even as the Bear's expression dropped to a sinister blank, and it gestured for two nearby guards to come over, all he felt was an empty cold, much like the icy breezes that blew passed now and then. Then his senses dulled to a monotonous void as they roughly grabbed him by either shoulder, forced him along to a building, a terrible building constantly filled with screams of terror and pain, pushed him on through the door. The Bear lagged behind at the doorway, and watched for any observers. When he was satisfied that no one was watching, a dark shadow fell over his face, and he turned to head inside.


End file.
